Where our paths cross

Malin

Malin sat on the floor in the bathroom of her apartment. She had a splitting headache. Wearily, she looked at the red marks next to her, where her knuckles and head hit the wall earlier. What was wrong with her? Why, why did she use physical pain over and over again to momentarily numb the mental pain in her head? Why couldn't she talk about it instead of destroying her skin over and over again? She let out a soft whine and collapsed against the wall. With great effort she tried to form a proper thought.

 What was she going to do? Her thoughts swung back and forth between the two choices that kept running through her mind: either she straightens herself up, wipes the blood from her body, then calls the emergency services, who will most likely put her in a psychiatric hospital for a month or two ,then let her go home, after which this whole scene will probably repeat itself, or... she will end it now. If she were sober, these thoughts probably would have made her slightly anxious, but at the moment she didn't think so The more she thought about it the more tempting it started to sound. The thought of never having to feel this way again lifted a weight from her shoulders. She considered the other option one last time, but deep down the choice had already been made. 

With great effort she straightened up and dragged herself to the cupboard opposite her. She slowly opened the bottom drawer and took out all the pill bottles she could find; the more the better. she took all the pills out of their packaging until she had a pile of white and red capsules, softgels and tablets in front of her. She took a glass from the cupboard and filled it to the brim with water. She slowly took a sip. She swallowed along with about three pills. The feeling of the pills going down her throat made her nauseous, but she ignored the feeling. She took another pill, and another, and another, and another, until she was physically unable to hold the glass and take any more pills. Her vision blurred. 

She looked one last time at the mirror to her right, her pale, bloodied face staring back wearily. It seemed as if her reflection was letting her know that it was okay, that she could let everything go. For good. She smiled at the mirror and closed her eyes. Less than a minute later she was dead. 

At least that's what she thought.

Everything was blurry. In the distance she heard sirens, which seemed to get louder and louder. With great effort she tried to form a thought in her head. What had happened? Why didn't she see anything? And what's with all those sirens outside? It looks like they're heading towards her apartment... 

And that's when she realised. The sirens were indeed meant for her. It hadn't worked. That thought hit me with a bang. "Fuck, you can't be serious," she whispered. "Why can't everything just stop, why can't this just stop?" She sobbed softly. 

Her head pounded. She put her hand on her temples and, startled, felt a big lump. There were a few drops of blood on the ground. That's probably where her head hit the ground, she thought. Suddenly she heard a bang. The paramedics were inside her apartment. Less than a minute later, the bathroom door opened. Two young paramedics stepped in and carefully lifted her onto a stretcher. "Don't worry, everything will be fine," one of the two whispered. But she was worried. What would happen to her now, now that her attempt has not worked?

The smell of bleach entering her nostrils was overwhelming. She slowly started blinking, desperately trying to open her eyes and trying not to get blinded by the bright light that was hanging above her face. "Where am I?" she thought. As her eyes slowly got used to the blinding light in her face, she could take a look around her surroundings. "I'm at the hospital" she realized.

The room was white and gloomy. She was overwhelmed by the brightness of the walls and lamp in the room, together with the beeping monitors. She tried to move her arm, but realized there was an IV attached. The ceiling had a sickly yellow colour, the same colour as the linens of her hospital bed. The room looked nothing like somewhere a patient was supposed to feel comfortable. If anything, the overwhelming room was making her even more nauseous than she already was.

Next to the bed was a cup filled with a sickly black liquid that smelled like charcoal. She wrinkled her nose. Just as she was about to turn back to the cup, a nurse walked in. "You're awake! Fantastic!" she said.

Malin gave her an angry look. "She had indeed just woken up, and the nurse was way too loud, which only gave her more headaches.

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to drink this," the woman said, gesturing to the cup. "You can't be serious," Malin said desperately. "That's fucking gross!" The nurse nodded. "That's exactly the point, you're supposed to throw up to get as many pills out of your body as you can." Malin didn't agree; the pills were supposed to stay in her system as long as possible, that's the reason she took them in the first place. But the nurse didn't seem to agree with that.

"Just drink it, otherwise you're going to have to be operated, which is much more uncomfortable than having to grit your teeth and get those pills out of your stomach." 

With great reluctance, Malin took the cup in her hand. She let out a deep sigh and took a sip. Immediately she gagged. The nurse handed her a bowl and Malin threw up. The gagging kept coming, and after fifteen minutes her stomach was as empty as it could be. She lay back down, exhausted. "Just sleep a little longer, tomorrow we will see what the plan is and how long you have to stay here," the nurse told her. Malin nodded and dropped her head in the uncoated, cold pillow.